I repeated it for Cowboy and Charlie One Ear. Charlie One Ear raised his eyebrows and greeted the
outcome with a wry smile. But his answer was instantaneous.
“I don?t see a problem,” he said. One by one they all chimed in. No problem, they agreed.
“I?ve got to get the lady home,” I said. “Anybody got a car I can use?”
Half a dozen sets of car keys were offered. I took Dutch Morehead?s sedan. It was the only one I was
sure was clean.
As we were walking away, the Mufalatta Kid said, “Hey, Kilmer?”
I turned around. “Yeah?”
“We?re gonna need to replace Stick. You ought to think about that.”
“Thanks. I?ll do that,” I said. And smiled for the first time in several hours.
77
RETURN TO WINDSONG
When we got to the end of the lane leading to Windsong, Stonewall Titan?s black limousine was
parked in the drive. Luke Burger, the sheriff?s man, was leaning against the hood of the car. He didn?t
take his eyes off me from the moment I stepped out of the car I had borrowed from Dutch.
I started toward the house and he said, “Just a minute there. Gonna have to pat you down.”
“Don?t even think about it,” I said, without looking at him or slowing down. I?d had enough of hard
talk and tough people for one night. I put an arm around Doe, led her across the long green lawn to the
house, around the porch, and up the front steps to the door. Warren, the family retainer, opened it
before I got a hand on the doorknob, as if a psychic doorbell had rung inside his head. He was older
and grayer and arthritis had slowed him down, but he was as starched and precise as ever.
“Good evening, sir,” he said with a smile, as if it were twenty years ago and I was dropping by for
dinner. Then he looked closer at both of us and added, “Gracious, ire you all right?”
“We?re okay,” I said as we went into the broad entrance hall. I had feared coming hack to this house
with its ghosts, long gone. But now I had too many other things on my mind, and so there was only
curiosity. I figured the years would have distorted my memory of the place, but there were few
surprises. I doubt that a single picture, vase, or stick of furniture had been moved in two decades. It
was like a museum, preserving the past for future generations of Findleys, generations that would no
longer carry the name, which had died with Teddy. Warren led us through the sprawling entrance hail
with its twin curved staircase at the far end, and into a sitting room large enough to accommodate a
Legionnaires? convention.
Chief and Titan were waiting there. It was a room cloyed by nostalgia, all wicker and antiques, its
tabletops choked with framed pictures of every size and shape—laughing pictures of Doe and Teddy
